


November Fog

by nannyogg123



Series: From River To Ocean [4]
Category: Broadchurch
Genre: Angst, Drama, Eventual Romance, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-05-06 07:25:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5408012
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nannyogg123/pseuds/nannyogg123
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ellie Miller to Alec Hardy: “Stalk me and insult me, that’s right.” (Broadchurch S02x01) – So did Alec Hardy really stalk Ellie?</p>
            </blockquote>





	November Fog

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LizAnn_5869](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LizAnn_5869/gifts), [Sgt_Pepperony94](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sgt_Pepperony94/gifts), [Hazelmist](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hazelmist/gifts).



> A/N: Many of us assume that Alec Hardy stalked Ellie Miller in Devon. He made a valiant attempt in "October Blues" that didn't go so well. But he hasn't given up yet. Set between Broadchurch Series 1 and 2.
> 
> This follows "October Blues" and of course the "A Million Holes Poked In The Soul" series. You can probably enjoy reading it without reading "A Million Holes", but it will give you a rounder picture of this version of Alec Hardy and the people around him. I would definitely recommend though to read "October Blues" first.
> 
> THANK YOU TO HAZELMIST who beta'ed this despite adverse circumstances and hurricanes.

* * *

 

**November Fog**

He really shouldn't be there. He had followed her from work with the intention of talking to her. Now the only person she was talking to was her therapist.

Hardy leaned against the tree he was hiding behind and crossed his arms over his chest. This was seriously moronic, even for him. And he had thought he had a solid plan this time.

 _Right_. Not so much. Here he was stalking Ellie Miller while she was doing something that if she knew that he knew, she'd probably murder him on the spot.

It had been two weeks since he saw Miller on Halloween. The image of her faltering smile when the other happy mother had left her behind had been haunting him. He couldn't stop thinking about how sad she'd looked. The ever smiling, positive Ellie Miller was broken and it was his fault. Maybe not technically but he felt responsible because he'd been the messenger. As Tom had said, he had taken Joe away. It didn't matter why or that it was justified, he'd still done it.

And now Ellie Miller was alone.

After Halloween, he had made some inquires with his contact at the Exmore nick. It had been more enjoyable than he wanted to admit. He had craftily interrogated his colleagues, trying to get them to talk without having to ask too many questions. The realization of how much he missed being a proper copper had been painful.

He had tracked down the officer Miller had been working with right before she switched to the traffic division. Hardy skirted around getting in touch with him for a bit. Forty-three hours to be precise. Then his need to figure out the Ellie Miller puzzle had won. He pretended to be Olly Stevens and he was going to burn in hell for it. How the PC he talked to could believe that he was Miller's nephew was beyond Hardy's comprehension. He was a lousy liar, could barely hide his Scottish accent and was probably two decades older than Olly, but it had worked. He was able to get a better picture of what happened and his imagination filled in the rest.

His heart ached when he realized what she might be going through. He wished he could do something for her but his attempt at engaging Tom certainly had been less than helpful. He shuddered at the memory of that night on the beach. He hadn't seen Tom since then. He had a plan to change that though. But not today.

It was getting dark and the cold was creeping under his thin coat. The light went on inside the therapist's house. He could make out Miller's shape behind the flimsy curtains. Her wild curls were unmistakable. Hopping from one foot to the other to keep warm, he blew on his stiff fingers and rubbed his hands against each other. She'd been in there for maybe half an hour by now, it shouldn't take much longer. But was he really going to jump out from behind this tree and go have a lovely supper with her? Unlikely, not only because she'd have murdered him before he would have a chance to get in a word in his defense, but also because his dodgy heart had been acting up all day and was letting him know it had supported enough stalking for one day.

He leaned against the tree again and focused on breathing. His stiff fingers fumbled with his pills. They slipped through and fell to the ground. Cursing, he stooped down to pick up the white chalky tablets. When he looked up Miller was walking out of the building.

 _Shit_. Hardy stood up quickly, provoking instant vertigo. He sacked against the wood, panting. Carefully, he spied around the trunk of the tree. Miller was sitting in her running car, staring at the steering wheel for a long time. Then she turned the car off and took out her phone. Her fingers hovered over the screen.

Hardy didn't need to see who she was trying to call. He knew. Because he'd done the same thing a million times. He knew the look on her face, the sorrow and pain that must be gleaming in her eyes.

She tapped the screen and held the phone to her ear. She had it there for a while, waiting for the voicemail to pick up. He idly wondered if she was counting the rings. His number was seventeen, that's when Daisy's phone took away that little tiny bit of hope he always had that she would pick up. It was getting smaller every time and he feared that day when it would be gone completely.

Miller left a brief message and tossed the phone on the passenger seat. Then she punched the steering wheel repeatedly. Hardy could hear her frustrated and angry cry through the closed car windows and from across the street. After a few deep breaths, her face went stoic and she drove off.

Hardy stepped out from behind the tree and stared after the car. Then he turned around and slowly walked away, just as alone as Miller.

 

* * *

 

A couple of days later, Hardy found himself in the last place he wanted to be. After a vigorous debate with himself, his need to put things right won. He really didn't want to go anywhere near that church but it was the only place he could be sure to catch Tom. Or at least he hoped so. Despite his fall out with the vicar, Tom was still going to Paul Coates' computer club which was happening at that very moment inside that old stone building.

He disliked churches almost as much as the beach. His mother had told him God would put him at the right place at the right time. But God had left him on that day his mother had been taken away by her overwhelming sadness. He wanted to believe that there was more to it than sheer coincidence that he ended up in Broadchurch, running away from his own sorrow and despair while desperately clinging on to some meaning in his life. And then he'd met Ellie Miller and her family. He'd thought that being there to arrest Joe was the greater plan, but now lurking in front of the church and waiting for Tom, he wondered if the greater plan might be something else.

Reluctantly, he pushed the heavy wood door open, flooding the aisle between the pews with sunlight. The familiar scent of old wood, damp stone and earth, mixed with the lingering remnants of incense was reminding him of all those times as a boy when he'd felt dizzy and unwell during mass. He had blamed it on the strong odor of the burning incense but now he knew better. It had always been a matter of the heart.

He took a seat in one of the back pews and waited for the end of the class. The children started to filter out of the side room in small groups. Tom was the last to leave. As soon as he saw Hardy, he ducked his head and sped up. Hardy stood quickly, almost, but not entirely, blocking the boy's way.

"Tom, can I talk to you?" Hardy demanded, his hand reaching for Tom's elbow without touching it.

"Leave me alone," Tom shouted at him. His anger brought out his teenage breaking voice.

"Please, I simply want to –" Hardy tried again but was swiftly interrupted.

"Sod off. Just because your daughter doesn't live with you, you think you've figured it all out. Maybe you should fix that first before you meddle with my family," Tom spewed at him viciously. Then he shoved a stunned Hardy to the side and ran off.

Hardy moved to follow him, but his chest seized up and left him doubled over. His heart stuttered only to resume a frantic beat at an erratic pace that didn't allow for it to pump blood properly. Hardy thudded hard onto the pews, groaning and gasping for air.

"DI Hardy, are you all right?" Paul Coates worried voice was drowned out by Hardy's desperate attempts at getting air into his lungs.

The vicar laid him down on the cold stone floor of the church, feeling for his fluttering pulse. "Can you tell me how to help you? Should I call an ambulance?"

Hardy shook his head. No more hospitals. "Pills… coat pocket," he rasped.

Paul found what he was looking for quickly. He popped out one, then another when Hardy indicated how many he needed. Paul placed them carefully in Hardy's mouth and held up his torso to make it easier to swallow.

Hardy had no idea how long it took for him to recover, but Paul was still cradling him when he finally was able to think more clearly. He shifted on the frigid floor, shivering from the cold sweat he was drenched in.

"Are you better?" Paul asked calmly.

Hardy nodded and sat up with the vicar's help. His teeth were chattering and the tremor in his hands prevented him from loosening his tie that threatened to suffocate him.

"Let me help you." Paul reached for his neck, undid the knot and unbuttoned his shirt.

They sat in silence, Hardy chilled to the bones, until Paul stood. "Either I'm going to get you a blanket or you'll come into the side room with me. It's warmer in there. And I can make you some tea."

"Can't drink tea," Hardy muttered in between coughs.

"I've got decaf. Remember, you're talking to an insomniac." Paul grinned and grabbed Hardy's arm firmly. He was surprisingly strong for a smaller man like him. He dragged him to his feet and slung Hardy's arm over his shoulders. They stumbled through the pews towards the side room.

Paul gently lowered him onto a sofa and threw a blanket at him.

"Take that. I'll be back in a few," Paul said and left the room.

Hardy wrapped himself in the blanket and let his head drop back. His eyelids drooped shut. He hated the feeling of his damp clothes sticking to him. At least he was off the cold stone floor. The chill of centuries seemed to have crept into him while he had been lying on the ground, struggling to survive yet another betrayal of his heart.

Tom's outburst had caught him utterly unprepared. He racked his brain as to how the boy could know about Daisy. There were two possibilities that he could think of. Tom might have listened to the adult's conversation that night he had visited the Miller house. Or more likely his cousin Olly played a role in this. Damn journalists.

Paul came back with two steaming mugs of tea. He placed one in front of Hardy, then sat down opposite him. He balanced his mug on his knee, blowing on it.

"You've got a bit more color to your face. That was quite a little stunt you pulled out there. Does that happen a lot?" Paul inquired with a raised eyebrow.

Hardy snorted and hid behind the teacup. He wasn't willing to discuss details of his bloody heart condition with the vicar.

"You know, you can talk to me. It's not like I'm trying to read you your last rites. Although, it looked like you came pretty close to that," Paul added sarcastically.

"Nice one, vicar," Hardy acknowledged with a smirk. "I should remember that for the next time I go see my doctor. She might like it. I might even give you credit for it."

Paul smiled wryly. "I see you've got your sharp tongue back."

Hardy shrugged and took another gulp of the tea. He stretched under the blanket. The stiffness in his bones started to leave him.

"What did you want from Tom?" Paul was curious, but Hardy stayed mute. He had even less interest in discussing his feelings about Ellie Miller with the clergyman than his heart condition.

"Anything to do with the fact that he doesn't want to have any contact with his mother?" Paul shot him a glance over the rim of his mug.

"I don't wanna talk about it," Hardy grunted. He wished he could leave but his legs felt like rubber, incapable to support any escape plans.

Paul nodded. After a few moments of silence he posed another question.

"How long has it been since you last talked to your daughter?"

Hardy sputtered his tea, followed by a coughing fit. Paul sat silently and watched him recover.

"How the hell do you know about my daughter?" Hardy barked at Paul as soon as he had enough air in his lungs.

"I didn't. It was an educated guess and your reaction confirmed my suspicion," Paul explained. As much as Hardy wanted, he couldn't detect any smugness in his tone or face.

"Have you considered a career change? I hear the Broadchurch nick recently lost a few derelict team members," Hardy retorted, avoiding the original question.

Paul grinned. "Oh, I'm quite content with my current employer. You haven't answered my question though."

Hardy glared at him, but Paul kept his open and encouraging face, regardless of how many times Hardy tried to murder him with his eyes. It was unnerving and finally he gave up.

"Half a year or so," he mumbled, casting his gaze down.

"Hm. Does she know you're dying?"

Hardy's eyes whipped up and bore into Paul's.

"Who says I'm dying?" he snarled.

"It doesn't need saying. I have eyes in my head. Besides, you said yourself, it's going to kill you if you don't take care of it," Paul stated matter-of-factly.

Hardy's vision blurred, but not because of his heart but because of the unshed tears. He slowly shook his head.

"No. She has no idea. As far as I'm aware she doesn't know about the heart. Or at least not a lot," he admitted, head hanging low.

Paul nodded again. "I see." He leaned closer and put a hand on Hardy's knee. "I will pray for you to find the strength to tell her."

"That's a waste of time, vicar. I could have all the strength in the world. It won't do anything if she doesn't even pick up her phone," Hardy said, bitter resignation making his voice harsh.

Paul tilted his head and studied Hardy's face. "You're a decent man, DI Hardy. Rough around the edges but good at heart. Don't give up on her. And yourself. Healing needs time."

Hardy stared at him, his face heating up. He pulled the blanket off resolutely. Paul smiled.

"I'm glad to see you're warming up. Stay as long as you need. I'll be right out there," he said while walking out.

Hardy finished his tea, his thoughts with his daughter. He resisted the urge to pull out his phone and call her. It wouldn't change anything. His resolve lasted about two minutes and he found himself leaving yet another message that she most likely would never hear.

He stood slowly, put the mug down, folded the blanket, and walked out into the cold church. He was about to leave when his eyes fell on the rack with the prayer candles. He hesitated and stopped in front of the row of flickering lights. He lit one and stared at it.

"For your daughter?" Paul had quietly come up behind him.

Hardy shook his head. "No. For someone who has no place to be remembered at."

Without saying anything else, he left a bewildered Paul Coates behind.

 

* * *

 

Hardy was staring out into the ocean and at the fog that was coming in. He had made the effort to climb Harbor Cliff, seeking solitude. His breath was rattling in his chest but his heart was holding up. Sort of. If he ignored the many skipped beats, the sweat on his brows and the slow spinning of the horizon. All in all, a passable achievement. One had to adjust expectations. At least he hadn't passed out since that afternoon in the church three days ago.

A wind gust tousled his already messy hair and tore on his coat. The air carried salt with it and a fine mist that crawled into every opening of his thin clothes. He had a winter coat, somewhere in storage in Sandbrook. He hadn't bothered bringing it to Broadchurch as he never had expected to be here for that long. He dismissed the idea of making a trip up north to retrieve some of his more seasonal garments. It would only be a sorry excuse to stalk his daughter who didn't want to be anywhere near him.

And maybe he wouldn't be in need of a winter coat anyway. The alarming rate his heart was giving out on him shed some serious doubt on his future. Even Claire commented on it the other day. She had busied herself with making an effort of ignoring his deteriorating health until his recent hospitalization. It had taken him several days to convince her, he wouldn't just fall over one day and leave her to rot in the cottage. When she had caught him taking his potpourri of pills on a night he had to stay over because he was too exhausted to make it back to his blue shack, she called him a liar and accused him of imprisoning her against her will. He was confused what one thing had to do with the other, but then she often didn't make sense to him. When he tried to stand up and sooth her, he realized too late that his heart wasn't game and before he could brace himself he fell face down onto the rough kitchen tiles. The bruise on his forehead had since faded, but her anxiety remained and she only became more demanding and clingy.

The next day he'd called Dr. Davis's office and he was given an appointment to reassess him for the pacemaker two weeks from that day. He would have felt more reassured if he had actually spoken to the cardiologist but apparently that was only an option if his symptoms were increasing. Hardy had briefly contemplated if he indeed had been getting worse, but by the time he admitted to himself that this was the case, the receptionist had already hung up on him. He never rang back. The appointment was in two days, on Friday. The day suited him. At least he'd have sufficient distraction and wouldn't stare at his phone all day.

The fog had now reached the beach beneath the cliff and swiftly engulfed everything. Hardy watched with morbid fascination how it built and welled up over the steep edge. It was an unusual sight at this time of the year and on this side of the island. Having spent many Easter holidays at the Scottish East Coast he was familiar with the thick grey carpet that rose from the cold ocean when the warmer spring air was driven over it. Despite it nearing the end of November, the last few days had been milder than usual but the rough sea in the English Channel was already frigid.

The grey mist had reached him, and within a few heart beats he was surrounded by nothingness. It drowned out all the sounds, even the relentless clashing of the waves. Hardy welcomed the eeriness of the moment. His hair stuck to his head, heavy with the moisture, and he was soaked quickly. It wasn't cold, but chilly enough for him to crave a hot cup of tea. He took one step forward to leave and suddenly realized he had lost his bearings. He stiffened up. As a wee lad he'd always known how to find his way back in the impenetrable fog, but he wasn't at home here. If he wasn't careful, he might step off the cliff. Another body in the sand. He'd be the third in less than half a year. This beach was deadlier than some of London's rougher corners, he thought sarcastically. He ignored the image of another figure lying still in the surf, the water gently tugging her long auburn hair back and forth. He pressed the heels of his hands on his eyes and sucked in the moist cool air.

"DI Hardy!" The voice came out of nowhere and startled him, setting his heart off yet again. Panting he used his knees as a crutch to keep himself upright. His right hand wandered up his chest, clawing at his damp shirt. It threw his balance off, putting too much weight towards one side while he was leaning on his other knee. He slowly teetered to the left and would have undoubtedly fallen, if it wasn't for Olly Stevens catching his weight.

"Oi, steady there," Olly exclaimed, holding Hardy up by the lapels of his coat. Hardy couldn't get a word out. Instead he resorted to murdering Olly with a stare. The journalist was not impressed. His scowling face was an inch away from Hardy's, so close that Hardy could feel his hot breath on him.

"Listen, Hardy. Stay away from Tom. He doesn't want to talk to you, and if I find you again anywhere near him or he tells me that you continue to stalk him, I won't save you from dropping off the cliff next time," Olly snarled. Then he put Hardy on his feet, brushed down the lapels he'd been holding onto, and vanished into the nothingness as quickly as he had appeared.

Hardy stared at the grey wall long after the fog had swallowed the apparition. If it hadn't been for his disheveled clothes, he'd seriously doubted that this brief encounter hadn't been a figment of his imagination. He'd never have thought that Olly Stevens could frighten him, but he had to admit the sudden appearance and definite threat that his few words had carried left him rattled.

He found some consolation in the familiar ritual of fishing out his pills and popping them in his palm. He slowly brought them to his mouth and gagged them down. He stared some more at where he thought the horizon might be, then turned around and slowly trudged towards what he hoped wasn't the edge.

 

* * *

 

It was Friday, November 22nd. A post-it note on his fridge reminded him of his doctor's appointment. It didn't need to. He would have remembered anyway as he had deliberately chosen that date to have a distraction. By the time he left his house, he had only checked his mobile about a dozen times if he'd missed the call that he knew she wouldn't make. He had another fifteen hours and thirteen minutes until that tiny sliver of hope inside him would die.

He arrived too early at the cardiologist's office. When he went through the paperwork, he received the first reminder of why this day was going to be torture.

"Oh, Mr. Hardy, it's your birthday today. Congrats, doing anything fun?" the receptionist asked in a cheery voice. He stared at her and the overly friendly smile was wiped off her face.

"I'm here. Is that fun enough for you?" he growled. She pressed her lips together and didn't reply, but when he turned away, he thought he heard her mutter "ungrateful git". He had told himself many times that the insults didn't hurt, but it seemed that he never could convince his stubborn self to believe his own words.

The next person to congratulate him was the nurse who was taking his heart rate and blood pressure. She promptly fell for it when she verified his identity asking for his birthdate.

"Oh, that's today," she exclaimed with more enthusiasm than could be healthy. "Happy Birthday, Mr. Hardy. Anything special planned for the day?"

"An ECG and an echocardiography?" he suggested sarcastically. "Maybe a new drug for my bum ticker?" he added, sadly enjoying his game of playing the wanker way too much. His defense mechanisms were working just fine. Unfortunately his heart wasn't.

Dr. Davis greeted him with a stern face which couldn't mean anything good.

"So, how have you been doing since you were discharged?" Davis asked in a neutral tone that immediately told Hardy that his doctor only expected the worst.

"Honestly, pretty shit," Hardy answered defiantly.

"Hm. I'm not surprised. The recovery since we did your last tests is marginal. At least the heart failure didn't get worse. Have you been taking your medications?" the cardiologist asked.

Hardy rolled his eyes at him. "'Course I have. I'm not an idiot."

Davis's eyebrow twitched, and Hardy had the distinct feeling that his doctor very much believed he indeed was an idiot. Who could blame him? Truth be told, Hardy had displayed extremely unreasonable behavior in the past when it came to taking care of his health.

"How many episodes did you have in the past four weeks?" Davis continued his questions.

Hardy chewed on his lip. He couldn't keep track any more. "Can you specify that? Are you asking about the ones where I passed out or just had to take the extra pills?" As soon as he had said the words, he realized that his tactic to buy himself time and figure out what Davis wanted to hear had backfired.

"If you have to ask me that question, then I already know the answer: too many. Let me rephrase, when was the last time you passed out?" Davis's pen was hovering over Hardy's chart, ready to take notes.

"This past Sunday," Hardy mumbled, eyes cast down. He wasn't sure why he was embarrassed. He had done everything that the doctor had asked of him but he still felt like he had failed. "You know, I tried to call you a couple weeks back, when I wasn't doing well. They wouldn't let me talk to you." He hated himself for the whiney tone in his voice. And he cursed the day Emily Abbott had left his life.

"I usually don't do phone consultations unless it's urgent," Davis stated stiffly. Hardy gave him a blank stare. He wondered if having banged up his face because he keeled over was urgent enough in Davis's eyes, but he didn't say anything.

"So, what about the pacemaker then?" Hardy inquired insecurely. His heart rate picked up with the anticipation of the answer. He knew it before Davis even opened his mouth to express his regret.

"Mr. Hardy, I'm sorry, but I have to inform you that your condition hasn't improved enough to go through with the procedure. Unless you're willing to take an unreasonably high risk. I'd say we could meet again after the holiday season and take it from there." Davis's tone was empathetic enough, but still it was rather jarring to be presented with the harsh reality.

"What if...," Hardy trailed off, balling his hands into fists. He meant to say, what if he were willing to risk it, but he knew he wasn't. The pressure to solve the Sandbrook murders and get Lee Ashworth behind bars was superseding everything. He needed to know that he got it right in the end. That he hadn't sacrificed his health and his family for an illusion of the truth. Then he could move on, try to reclaim whatever was left from his life. And maybe he'd have a chance to clear things up with his daughter before he went for a procedure that most likely would kill him.

Davis was watching him intently. He leaned forward and propped his elbows on his desk. His expression had changed and his voice was softer, when he asked, "How are you holding up? And I don't mean the heart."

Hardy's vision blurred and he traced the edge of the desk with his index finger. It ended up next to a photograph of Davis's happy family – a wife, a son, and a daughter, smiling and waving at the camera for their loved one.

"How are the nightmares?" Davis inquired when Hardy remained silent.

"Same, I guess. Don't sleep much," Hardy admitted, tone indicating he didn't want to discuss it further. Davis didn't give up though.

"Are you still working?" he probed gently. Hardy nodded, teary eyes fixed on the photo. "That's good. Did your friend leave?" Hardy bopped his head up and down again, not trusting his voice. "Hm. Are you in contact with him?"

Hardy shrugged. "Sort of," he answered roughly. Duncan made sure they talked at least once a week, but Hardy had been dodging the calls. Even on this day, he'd let it go to voice mail, not wanting to hear the well wishes. He continued to stare at the photograph. Davis must have noticed.

"Did your family call you today? It's your birthday, right?" Davis asked with more kindness in his voice than Hardy would have expected.

Hardy swallowed. "No. My ex-wife wouldn't and my daughter –" His voice cracked and he never finished the sentence.

"Mr. Hardy, I can't imagine how difficult this must be for you. Dealing with a disease like this is tough, even with support of friends and family, but when you were in the hospital you told me that you feel very much alone. I can't change that, but what I can do is to help you get well enough so that we can proceed with the pacemaker placement. And give you a chance to still be around to celebrate your next birthday." Davis's attempt at lifting his spirits was commendable but not very successful.

"I've been doing everything you asked of me, but I'm not getting better, if anything I think I'm worse. How can I ever be good enough to fix this?" Hardy's words rang with a desperation that was related to so much more than just his heart condition. "It's my god damn birthday and my daughter doesn't _care_. I thought I did the right thing and in the end _everything_ fell apart and I have never been able to catch up." He groaned in frustration. His chest was heaving and a familiar tugging crept through him.

Davis had gotten up, walked around his desk and stealthily sneaked his hand on his wrist. "Where is your medication?" he asked calmly, his fingers not leaving the pounding spot over his artery. Hardy pulled the pills out from his pockets and tossed them on the desk.

"I'm so _tired_ of this horseshit," he wheezed while Davis was getting him some water. He swallowed the tablets and they both waited in silence until his heart had settled down.

"You can't work yourself up like this," Davis reprimanded him.

"Seriously? What sort of advice is that?" Hardy growled in between ragged breaths.

"I mean it. If you don't control your temper and your frustration, it's going to kill you. If you're tired of it, then do something about it. I know you feel very much out of control, but you're not entirely powerless here. If you can't change the situation, then change the attitude," Davis argued.

"Attitude?" Hardy's voice shifted up an octave. "You're joking, right? 'Cause my outlook on life is rather shit right now. I can't do the job that I'm good at, my daughter hasn't talked to me in months and hates me, and I might drop dead tomorrow. Can you explain to me how an 'attitude' change would fix any of this?" Hardy spat at the unimpressed face of Dr. Davis.

"How about focusing on a goal instead of harping on what's already happened? You know that Emily Abbott thinks you could get back to active duty after the pacemaker insertion and an appropriate recovery time. And if you don't lose your temper over everything, you actually might not drop dead tomorrow and get well enough to undergo the procedure. How's that for a start?" Davis suggested with a sincere expression.

Hardy gaped at him, desperately wanting to argue back, but he couldn't find the right words. Davis raised an eyebrow and cocked his head.

"You're not the first person whose life fell apart. Look around you, who do you know who's been out of luck lately? I'm sure there has to be someone."

Hardy's head snapped up and he shot Davis a piercing glance. The memory of Ellie Miller sitting in her car, so lonely and far away from where her life used to be, clawed itself onto the surface of his thoughts. Miller's whole world had shattered and she had done nothing to deserve it. She hadn't hidden a deadly disease, she hadn't lied to her spouse and her children, she hadn't messed up a double murder case, but yet she had been blamed for something she had no hand in.

And suddenly, Hardy was calm. His anger and frustration evaporated with the sorrow and warmth he felt for Miller. His eyes found Davis's reassuring face that drew into a small smile when he saw the change in his patient's expression.

"Good. You made the right choice. Happy Birthday, Mr. Hardy," Davis said enthusiastically and patted Hardy's shoulder. "I'll see you after the holidays."

Hardy clambered to his feet, rattled by what had been said. He muttered a thanks and trudged out of the office.

The door fell shut behind him and he looked at the road ahead. And for the first time in months he allowed himself to not only dread it, but also appreciate it for what it was – a rocky path towards an opportunity to put things right.

 

* * *

 

The door fell shut in front of her. More like slammed in her face. Ellie flinched, bit down on her quivering bottom lip and turned around. She tried not to picture Tom storming down the hallway to Lucy's guest room where he had been living for the past months. It hurt too much.

She shouldn't have come, knowing very well that he wanted nothing to do with her at the moment. Lucy had warned her against using the need to sign a school form as an excuse to visit Broadchurch. Her stubbornness had won and she was paying the price now. Tom hadn't bothered to say hello, but had immediately flung the door back into its lock and left his mother standing in the proverbial rain. She was halfway down the driveway when Olly came running after her.

"Ellie, wait!" She slowed down but didn't turn. He caught up with her and stalled her with his hand on her elbow.

"I'm sorry about that. He's been really out of sorts ever since Hardy was trying to talk to him," Olly excused Tom's miserable behavior.

Ellie frowned. Why would Hardy want to speak to her son? Was there something about the case she didn't know? Her alarms went up. "What does the bloody wanker want from Tom?" she hissed.

"How should I know? From what Tom says, he kept harassing him about not talking to you. I told him off the other day and I don't think he's going to try again." Olly smirked. "I frightened the bejesus out of him on the cliffs. He almost dropped dead."

Ellie couldn't quite share Olly's smug pride. Considering that she had held the man while his bum ticker was giving out on him, she didn't find the idea of a dead Alec Hardy on the cliffs very amusing. "That's not funny, Olly. You know he has a heart condition and almost died on me running down Joe. He might be a knob but he doesn't deserve to be mistreated," she admonished her nephew.

Olly shrugged and pouted. "It did the trick though. He hasn't been anywhere near Tom since then."

Ellie shook her head, taken aback by the hostility that Olly displayed for her former boss. It wasn't that she was particularly fond of him, but he'd been one of the few people who had stuck with her after Joe was arrested. His awkward softness and understanding had spooked her at the time and it had been so hard to handle. She hadn't heard a word from him since that night on the bench.

"Why is he still around anyway? Thought he might leave after he got kicked out of the force," Olly went on.

"He wasn't kicked out, he went on medical leave," she corrected him. It was a good question though. Why _was_ he still in Broadchurch? He had not held back with his dislike for the town and its residents. Ellie's curiosity was sparked. Her former boss and what made him tick had always been somewhat of a puzzle to her. The fact that he had come to her town, taken her job while knowing how ill he was, really bothered her. She didn't want to think about what would have happened, if he hadn't been there though.

"Is he at the Traders? Hardy, that is?" she inquired pensively.

"Nah. He moved out about a month or so ago. Lives in one of those waterside shacks now," Olly said, contempt not hidden.

"Hardy lives by the water? You're kiddin'?" she chortled. She remembered Hardy's visible discomfort of being on a boat even in the calm harbor sea. Olly shrugged again.

"I've got to go back inside. Had something on the stove. Should probably check on that," Olly mumbled, clearly uncomfortable with the awkward situation. Ellie remembered why she'd actually come. She pulled out the school form and signed it.

"What's the date?" she asked absentmindedly, one day blending into the other.

"November 22nd," Olly replied. Ellie filled it in. It was already almost December and she dreaded the Christmas time. She'd never spent it without family around. She handed the paper to her nephew. Something popped up in her head, utterly unrelated and very random. She had filled in Hardy's birthdate several times that night he'd collapsed in the boat yard. It was his birthday today. It was hard to believe that the wanker had one, it made him too human.

She shoved her hands into her coat pockets and kicked a pebble in the driveway. "Where did you say Hardy moved to?" she asked as neutrally as she could.

"Why do you want to know?" Olly squinted at her. _For God's sake_ , why couldn't he just answer her question?

"'Cause I want to go and throw something at him and then tell him to leave my son alone," Ellie retorted. She left out the part about maybe wishing him a happy birthday. She didn't even know herself why she'd felt the desire to do so.

"Suit yourself. I don't know the exact address. I think it might be the blue one or one of those next to it. Saw him walking around there the other day." He paused and gave her one last scrutinizing look before he ran back inside. "Bye, Ellie. Don't be a stranger."

Ellie waved a meek goodbye and thought she saw Tom peeking behind the curtains, but maybe it was only wishful thinking. She drove off without looking back.

 

* * *

 

She positioned herself on the other side of the water. It gave her a good look at all the small houses along the riverside, the blue one prominently in the middle. It was getting darker, but there were no lights in any of the shacks. The cooling air made her chilly and she tugged her windbreaker tighter around herself. She had missed the salty air from the sea and how it made her curls sticky. Shoving away any self-pity, she slouched down on a bench and waited.

It was almost dark when she saw him. His stick figure was wearing the same coat as he had in the summer. Ellie shook her head. Maybe she should not only have given him shoes but also a proper jacket. He walked slowly, without the bounce he'd had during the time they were working together. It was too dark and too far to see his face properly. He abruptly stopped and swayed, leaning back against the wooden fence door he'd just closed. Ellie squinted into the greying light, but there was no way she could make out anything else than his skinny frame. She didn't need to. Her imagination filled in his gaunt features from the morning after his heart had stopped. The moment passed and he made his way inside his house.

Now would have been the opportune moment to leave her stake out and walk over there. The lights went on inside and she could see his tall silhouette in what she thought to be the kitchen. The longer she watched him from afar, the harder it became to move and do what she had come for. He was looking down at something and then his hand came to his mouth followed by a water glass. Ellie felt awkward witnessing him taking what she presumed was medication. It felt like an odd invasion of privacy, especially as she knew how secretive he had been about his heart condition. Why did he have to keep it a secret anyway? _Knob._

She questioned what she had thought to accomplish by freezing her buttocks off while staring at someone else's house. She didn't really care about the wanker, but here she was stalking Alec Hardy while he was doing something that if he knew that she knew, he'd probably murder her on the spot.

He opened the glass doors again and plopped down on his stoop. His elbows propped on his knees, he let his head drop between his arms and raked his fingers through his hair. He sat like that for a few minutes before he fished out his mobile. The screen lit up his face but she couldn't make out his features. He stared at the phone for a long time. Ellie couldn't help herself but to feel reminded of all the times she'd been doing the same wishing for Tom to call her. Hardy's daughter didn't live with him and he never spoke about her. She wondered if the girl had called her father for his birthday. Tom hadn't for hers.

She swallowed hard and knew she was going to cry as soon as her lip started shaking. She sniffed and vigorously wiped at her cheeks. When she looked back, Hardy had left the stoop. She watched the lights go off inside, one by one, until the house was dark and lonely. She stared at it for longer than she should have, then turned and slowly walked away, just as alone as Hardy.

 

* * *

 

Hardy checked his mobile one last time, right when it stroke midnight. No word from her. The phone slipped out of his hand and he rolled over, slinging an arm over his teary eyes. He curled around his pillow and pulled the thin blanket tighter, barely shielding him against the cold. He drifted off to greet Pippa's bloated face like he did every night, fighting his lonely battle against the ghosts of his past over and over again. His phone buzzed and Hardy snatched it up, clinging onto it with the desperation of a drowning soul.

He held the phone at arm's length, squinting at the lit up screen. He made out three words, but he didn't need to see anything else.

**Happy Birthday, Dad.**

His hands were shaking so much that he barely could see the letters and the tears that welled up didn't help. He hadn't heard from her for months. With trembling fingers, he typed a reply.

**Thanks, darlin. I love you, always.**

She didn't write back, but Hardy didn't need more. He put the phone down carefully and buried his face in his palms. His skinny shoulders were heaving with his sobs of relief. Maybe he would be able to make it through this and come back from the river after all. When sleep finally came to him, it was deep and dreamless and when he woke in the morning, the sun filtering through the blinds, his weary body felt less beaten and worn than it had in a long time. Maybe it would last him another year.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I chose Hardy's birthday for two reasons - my mother and my late grandfather. They now share a birthday with our favorite Alec. I love you guys!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the former detectives club stalking each other. I had fun writing it. I also tried out something new – ending a story on a hopeful note! It's a story about Hardy moving on and trying to find something else in his life besides only obsession and loneliness.
> 
> This story leads also into my three part Christmas story which will soon come to a fanfic site of your choice. Happy Holiday Season everyone!


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